


the masks we make

by ohmcgee



Category: DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re homesick for roof tops and the smell of car exhaust and hot dog stands, the musty smell of the cave and the way Bruce looks at you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the masks we make

You know it’s not _right_ , that he’ll probably never look at you the same again after you ask, but it’s been too long since you’ve even seen Gotham, too long since you’ve felt nothing but air beneath your feet, inhaled leather and aftershave, and you’re _homesick._ You’re homesick for roof tops and the smell of car exhaust and hot dog stands, the musty smell of the cave and the way Bruce looks at you, a mixture of disapproval and pride waging a war on his features. The only thing that keeps you going everyday, gets you up every morning, is looking forward to hearing his voice, the one thing keeping you steady in this spiderweb of lies and deceit. Even then you miss hearing him say your actual name, the way he’s never able to hide the fondness in his tone when he says it. The last time you spoke you made him laugh and you thought your chest was going to explode, you’re that starved for it. 

“Grayson,” Agent 1 says. “Just tell me what you need, you fool.”

He’s your partner now. He knows when something is wrong and he wants to fix it, or more, he needs you at your best. He’s been watching you and he can see how much you’re hurting, but you can’t ask him to do that. You don’t know even know if you want him to. It wouldn’t be the real thing, it wouldn’t be --

But he’s your partner and he _knows_ and suddenly you’re looking at Bruce -- _not_ Bruce, because it’s not, but --

He’s wearing the same thing he was wearing the last time you saw him, a black turtleneck and grey slacks, and there’s stubble on his jaw, wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and it’s just so easy to believe that he’s _here_ , standing right in front of you, that he’s safe. 

That you’re home. 

When you wrap your arms around him, bury your face in the crook of his neck and smell leather and the same aftershave Bruce has used for the past fifteen years, you know it’s just your mind playing tricks on you.

But still, you hold on a little longer.


End file.
